"Good day, ladies and wicked men."
The radio host's voice crackled through the armored vehicle's speakers, theatrical and well-practiced.
"Good day? Really? Can we even call this a good day, when the fate of so many will once again be decided? It's a blessing and a curse, guys. We dread this day as much as we praise it."
Static hissed beneath the words as the vehicle shuddered over broken ground.
"On the bright side of things, today marks the hundredth year since the Fracturing. A hundred years since the fabric of reality tore, since we lost what we came to know as Definition."
The host's voice dropped, performative grief.
"Humanity has suffered, hasn't it? Millions dead. The Undefineds hunting what remains. And the Axiom, our only protection isn't exactly what you'd call reliable. We've cried out to the gods, but they're either dead or they've abandoned us."
The host paused for dramatic effect.
"Even some of our own kind abandoned us. Abandoned our entire dimension."
He paused again… and exhaled.
"But here we are. February 14th, 2126. The second Dimensional Day of Definition since the Academy was founded. We found Sanctuaries. We built homes in the ruins. We survived."
The theatrical grief shifted to forced optimism.
"Humanity… we Earthlings have come a long way, haven't we, Mr. Whitestorm?"
Another voice joined the broadcast.
"Indeed we have. Three Sanctuaries claimed in a hundred years. We've lost millions and only thousands have awakened so far. When you weigh what we've achieved against what it cost us..."
He made a contemplative pause.
"Yes. We've come far."
The host latched onto the sentiment.
"Hmm-mm. And speaking of achievement — you're the Headmaster of Definition Academy. What do you have to say about today's Definition event?"
Whitestorm's voice roughened slightly.
"We have promising candidates this year. Mikail, Ghostnight's son. Aisling and Rinchen, the Wintertide twins."
The host made an encouraging noise.
Whitestorm continued.
"And of course, the best of them all is the traitor's son."
The words hung in the static.
"I'm almost sorry to say it, but the boy has the greatest potential we've seen. Top of his class, untouchable. He's just like his father — a monstrous existence. If the theories are right, we may be looking at another Sovereign today..."
The voice faded to background noise as someone in the vehicle clicked their tongue.
"Tch."
Axel, seated by the left window of the armored transport, glanced sideways. Said nothing.
To his right sat Aisling Wintertide. And beyond her, pressed against the opposite window, Rinchen Wintertide — the source of the sound.
Rin's jaw was tight, resting on his hand which in turn leaned on the Vehicle'd window platform.
Axel turned back to the window and watched ruins scrolled past outside. This was the skeletal remains of a world that had died a century ago. The armored vehicle ground forward, crushing debris beneath its treads.
'Traitor's son.' He'd heard it before. And certainly would hear it again.
But itt didn't matter.
"Like it changes anything."
Rin's voice cut through the silence — hoarse, as if his throat had been scraped raw.
"Even if he awakens a Sovereign-rank Class, he's just going to betray Earth like his father did."
Aisling, caught between them, closed her eyes, drew a long breath in and let it out slowly.
Her voice was pleasant in a way that promised violence.
"Goodness, Rin. What is your problem? You always have a bone to pick with Axel."
She opened her eyes, pinning her brother with a look.
"I don't know — go suffocate in dirty water or something. Stop this nonsense, or I'll teach you how nonsense is stopped."
Rin's glare turned on his sister. But he said nothing and did nothing.
The vehicle rolled forward through the silence, the dark interior pressing in around them.
The Academy drew closer with every passing second.
They rolled past the skeletal remains of cities — towers gutted by time and violence, streets choked with debris that had been accumulating for a century. Then the structure appeared on the horizon.
It grew larger as they approached. A coliseum.
The ancient arena rose in massive stone tiers, its walls weathered and cracked but somehow still standing. Wide arches stacked upon one another formed its curved facade, casting deep shadows into the interior. A hundred years ago, this place had hosted entertainment. Now it hosted something else entirely.
A reinforced gate had been built into the base. Other structures clustered around the coliseum's perimeter — newer construction, hastily assembled from salvaged materials. The Definition Academy had claimed this ruin and made it functional.
The armored vehicle rolled past the outer buildings and finally came to rest near the vomitoria — the arched entrances that had once funneled crowds into the arena. Dozens of other vehicles were already parked there, each one armored in its own way, some shaped like predatory beasts, others like fortified transports.
The door opened and as Axel stepped out, the air hit him first — cold and carrying the faint mineral smell of old stone. Then the low murmur of hundreds of voices echoing from within the arena's bowl followed afterwards.
Mr. Charles, the Wintertide family butler, guided them forward. The man was tall and gaunt, with eyes so perfectly circular they looked artificial. Two soldiers in winter-marked armor flanked the group, hands resting on weapon hilts.
Other candidates were arriving through the vomitoria — children of prestigious families, each accompanied by their own guards, their own servants. None of them were smiling. Their faces held the same expression Axel had seen in mirrors: controlled blankness hiding something else underneath.
They all knew what today meant.
The interior of the coliseum had been transformed. What had once been the hypogeum — the underground chambers where gladiators and animals had waited — was now a network of classrooms, dormitories, and passages. The Definition Academy lived beneath the arena floor.
Axel followed the others down into the reconstructed depths, Aisling and Rin walking in silence beside him. The stone corridors were lit by artificial light, the ancient architecture clashing with modern fixtures bolted to the walls.
They emerged into the main hall.
Students filled the space — their "mates," the other candidates who would ascend to the arena floor today. Some sat rigidly in chairs. Others paced. A few prayed to gods who had never answered.
A massive holographic screen dominated one wall, broadcasting a live feed from the arena above. The seating bowl was already packed. Thousands of spectators arranged in tiers — the highest seats reserved for those with Master and Champion ranked Classes, the powerful watching the powerless.
Everyone had gathered to witness the fate of the new generation.
Axel found a chair and settled into it. On the screen, armored guards surrounded the arena floor, shields raised, weapons drawn. They faced inward, toward the seats.
Not to protect the candidates, but to contain them.
'If we fail to awaken a Class,' Axel thought, watching the guards' formation, 'they kill us before we can become Undefined.'
That was the celebration. That was the hope in the spectators' eyes. Not hope for the candidates — hope that today's culling would strengthen humanity's chances. Hope that the failures would die clean.
On the holographic screen, the Academy Headmaster stepped onto the central stage.
Etherion Whitestorm raised his hands for silence.